Mostly Unwanted Scrap Tin And Needless Garbage
by Kelly1
Summary: If Pietro had known the trouble it was going to cause, he would’ve stolen the Civic instead. Or maybe not.... Waff-y squishy bantery Pietro/Dominic ficlet. M/M.


Title: **M**ostly **U**nwanted **S**crap **T**in **A**nd **N**eedless **G**arbage  
Author: kelly1_watxm  
Summary: If Pietro had known the trouble it was going to cause, he would've stolen the Civic instead. Or maybe not.... Waff-y pointless squishy bantery Pietro/Dominic ficlet.  
Rating: M – language, sexual themes  
Pairing: Pietro/Dominic  
Warnings: M/M slash. Don't like it, don't read it. Easy peasy lemon-squeazy 3  
Disclaimer: Marvel owns.

A/N: It's my (party) 24th birthday and I'll (cry) write WAFF-y fic for my cracky OTP if I want to. :)

There were times when Pietro truly revelled in being an arrogant asshole (whenever he got that plebeian barista with the over plucked eyebrows, for example. Demanding a grande, sugar-free, non-fat, vanilla soy, double shot, decaf, no foam, extra hot, peppermint white chocolate mocha with light whip and extra syrup and then sighing disdainfully when she asked him to repeat his order always significantly brightened his day.) Now was not going to be one of those times.

He carefully pushed open the doorway to the garage. Dominic was bent over the hood of a restored '86 Mustang, buffing out water spots so rigorously and so tenderly, running huge precise hands over the shining metal, that it was damn near sexual. Near sexual? Who was Pietro kidding? His mind was already off on a tangent that involved very few articles of clothing and several of those baby-goat-ass-or-whatever-the-fuck-those-things-were-made-of chamois cloths. The fact that Dominic was bent over, providing ample posterior staring opportunity, was not helping Pietro's focus any.

Dominic was whistling as he polished. Fucking whistling. _Dammit._ Was this a Disney movie? Pietro half expected woodland creatures to start frolicking at his feet. And now Pietro had to play the part of the villain, all cackling madly and spoiling everything (as long as he didn't have to wear black. He looked terrible in black; it washed him out. He was an 'autumn.') Except he wasn't driven by spite or malice or jealousy (well, maybe a little jealousy, Dom had been spending an inordinate amount of time out in the garage since "Lucy's" arrival. Pietro knew there was going to be a problem when he named it) but rather by prudency. Pietro had boosted the Mustang three days ago, which meant it had been in Brotherhood's possession approximately 2 days and twelve hours too long.

Pietro disliked hotwiring vehicles -- finding one with adequate gas, driving it (no car ever went as fast as he could've under his own power), filing off the serial number. He found the entire process tedious, and was vaguely hostile towards his team for having to continue to do so. Snails. And then there was disposal. They couldn't very well leave fingerprints or evidence lying around for the MRD to track, could they? At least Domino handled that part; she seemed to find burning them to be cathartic.

The Mustang had not been the most practical (or Fred friendly) choice, but his options had been limited at the time. Had he know the trouble it was going to cause, Pietro would've unquestionably gone with the rusted out Civic hatchback. (But he'd remembered that he had just _liberated_ a Civic last month and sometimes Dominic liked to poke around the engines of different cars if they were between evil henchmen-ry. He would complain if Pietro stole the same thing. Dominic also had a penchant for older vehicles and Pietro had just known, with its glossy black finish and ridiculous red velour upholstery, that Dom would get a kick out of picking it apart. Not that Pietro kept track of stuff like that.) Pietro had always found that particular model of Mustang, like most of the questionable aesthetics of the 1980's, to be rather hideous. For a sports car, the thing was as sleek as a box van.

"Lucy" (or "Lucy II," more precisely, as he had been informed the other night in bed while Dom was practically gushing about dual intake manifolds or some other crap that Pietro really didn't care to understand) had also, apparently, been the precise make and model of Dominic's first car. Which likely (hopefully) explained why he was caressing it gently now. That, or the pressures of working for a hostile mutant splinter group had finally gotten to him. Or maybe he had some sort of metal kink. (_Note to self: Keep him away from Colossus._) It would certainly explain the handcuff thing.

Pietro really hated to do it to Dom, but the car had to go. It was just too much of a liability. The plates would've been called in by now and it wasn't exactly one of those vehicles you saw a million of on the road. It was a cop magnet even before it was hotter than the eponymous potato. Pietro had told Domino to give him a fifteen minute head start to warm Dominic up to the idea (of which he'd wasted three watching Dominic's ass.)

"Hey you." Pietro took the element of surprise as an opportunity to both grasp and squeeze firmly. "How goes the battle against water spots?"

"Hard fought." Dominic nodded solemnly, throwing the chamois over his shoulder and turning to face him. His eyes were bright and the olive skin crinkled around the edges. It had taken Pietro nearly a year of leading the Brotherhood to crack Dom's serious-candy coating and reach the chocolaty goodness of deadpan snarking hidden beneath. "We have lost many good men. There is a mysterious plague of grabass ravaging through the ranks."

Pietro leaned back onto the driver's side door, smirking. "Tragic."

"And yet you take their struggle in vain." Dominic made a point of lifting Pietro's hand by the wrist and elaborately re-cleaning the invisible and possibly imaginary fingerprint smudge. Pietro stuck his tongue out at him. Dominic put his own hand down in the exact same spot and leaned next to him, grinning. "Do you know what I discovered today?" Like he was fucking Magellan.

"The Philippines?"

"What?"

"Never mind." Pietro always got the distinct impression of two caterpillars preparing for a death match when Dominic furrowed his brow, and resisted the urge to laugh. "What'd'you find?"

"She has got a SLP Loudmouth Catback." Dominic's tone recalled the reverence of Fred describing the many positive qualities of the Burger King Quad stacker... with bacon.

Pietro reached in through the open window and popped the hood. He had stared into the engine for what felt like an adequate and believable amount of time, nodding thoughtfully. "Yes, that's a very impressive cat's back."

Dominic came up behind him, an arm on either side of Pietro, leaning forward into the engine until their faces were even. In his peripheral vision, Pietro could see his smile growing wider. "It is an exhaust pipe. It is at the back of the car."

"I knew that."

"Of course you did." And, as Dominic wrapped his arms around Pietro's waist, tracing hot wet kisses across the back of his neck, down his jaw, tickling his collar bone, moving, exploring (like he was fucking Magellan,) Pietro lost another three minutes. _Oh... fuck._ Not that he minded, he could always let Dom keep the car for another day and---_No! Oh, I am on to you and your sneaky subterfuge of distraction, Petrakis!_ Pietro came here with a purpose and he was not going to get sidetracked.

"Dom." Pietro sort of wriggled free, (not wriggled , 'wriggled' was undignified... masterfully and gracefully escaped,) semi-breathless and wishing, for once, that he was not wearing spandex pants.

"What is the matter?" (_And_ wishing, for once, that his face wasn't such an open book. Wanda, always so diplomatic, said it was 'expressive.' Domino called it 'the easiest hundred bucks I ever made' whenever they played poker, and Pietro was mostly sure that the woman at the Clinique counter referred to it similarly. [Seriously, he was only 27. His forehead should _not_ have the wrinkles of an 80-year-old. If that meant he shelled out some legitimate cash for Q10 complexes, he was willing to take that hit to his wallet. Though no one on the Brotherhood could ever ever know.])

Pietro took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on the tool shelf behind Dominic. (Because he was _such_ a fucking coward and his resolve would crack if he had to actually look at him.) "Domino's going to take Lucy for a drive."

"No...," and Dominic half hugged the car, his voice already defeated. Pietro would've laughed if he hadn't looked so damn tragic. "She is too special to burn."

"Of course she's too special to burn," Pietro soothed, lying through his teeth. "Domino's taking her to a better place. It's a farm upstate; there's miles of track and she can play all day with the other muscle cars and no one will ever forget to change her oil at 3000 miles and they only pump premium gas and there's no potholes or speed limits."

"That sounds nice." Dominic gave the door another shine, sighing wistfully. For chrissakes, they had the car for **three days**. He was grinning at Pietro now, faking before. "Someday, I think I am going to ask Domino to take me there, too. I am somewhat partial to fast things."

"Ooo, are you talking about me?" Pietro hopped up on the hood, chin on his fist, a caricature of attentiveness. "Do go on. I'm my favourite subject."

"I had never noticed this." Dominic frowned. "Are you certain? You are usually so humble and modest all of the time."

Pietro gave him a swift hit to the shoulder. "Shut up, asshole."

"And polite. I forgot polite." Dominic laughed, warm and rich and deep (and only for Pietro. Dominic was always so serious, when Pietro could get him like this, when it was just the two of them alone and he would crack jokes and smile and fill up the whole room with that rare, hearty chuckle... God, Pietro lived for that.) "It is a shame, though." Dominic opened the car and pushed the passenger seat forward a little too casually, manoeuvring his massive frame until he was seated relatively comfortably behind the non-existent driver.

Pietro took the bait, poking his head through the opened door but not quite able to bring himself to actually sit on the garish velour. "What's a shame?"

"This car," Dominic chuckled to himself, a million miles away. "This car was very good for me when I was younger. Lucky, yes? And now, I have to give her up before..."

_No. No, absolutely not._ Pietro wasn't even going to entertain the idea. Because they weren't high school seniors and no self-respecting adult ever had sex in the back seat of a car past prom (on velour, for chrissakes). That was why they had invented beds (and shower stalls and living room couches and balconies and office chairs and pool tables and kitchen counters and... Pietro was getting distracted again.) "Is this the part where you ask me to shift your stick and I start wondering when my life became a poorly scripted porn?" Pietro climbed into the backseat, grinning wickedly. (Who was Pietro kidding? When had _he_ ever been a self respecting adult?) "Though I suppose you _do_ have the terrible moustache for it."

"Shut up, asshole." And this time Pietro laughed, Dominic pulling Pietro down on top of him, one arm firm across the small of his back, the other already working the waistband of Pietro's pants over his hipbones.

"Hold on." Pietro kissed him hard. "I'm going to go grab some of those chamois."


End file.
